𝐙𝐔𝐌𝐀! | harry styles

𝐗

WE'RE driving down PCH and I don't care that I'm probably fired. The day, the setting, the guy is as perfect as Eddie Van Halen's guitar licks, and I'm going to enjoy every minute of it, bank account and work ethic be damned.

Besides being really hot and bedroom-poster worthy, I find I actually like him the more I spend time with him. He's smart and funny, creative and hard-working, kind and gentle. He literally helped an old lady cross the beach access road like a Boy Scout, for Christ's sake, when we were walking to his car. I'm still curious to know why the shift in his attitude towards me after all this time, but I'm not stupid enough to ruin any second of it with the list of questions piling up in my head like Barbara Walters.

And even though I try to not think about Rosalie while we're flying down the highway on this beautiful July day, figuring out just what the fuck he's still doing with her floats to the front of my mind against my will. I guess it's possible it's all for sex-Rosalie is absolutely gorgeous and men drool over her-but I really don't get that vibe from him.

And I know he's not in it for the stellar conversation, so I'm at a loss.

"I have to drop the equipment off at school, is that cool?" he asks as his hair bends in the breeze from the moving Jeep. "It's about a forty-minute drive, I should've asked you before I kidnapped you." He actually bumps my shoulder with his elbow and I want to faint he's acting so chummy.

Forty minutes? Almost a whole hour? Just me and him and my ability to pretend we're a picture-perfect couple even if it's harmful to my psyche and heart? "No problem." I tuck my list of questions to the back of my head and prop my feet on the dash.

I watch the ocean on my right as The Police play in the 8-track. "So if you're dropping off the equipment, does that mean you're done with the movie?"

"No, we have to edit, which takes much longer. Shooting is the easy part, now we have to put it together so it doesn't suck." He laughs, but I can tell he's half-serious when his hand combs through his hair nervously.

I wave a hand at him. "It's going to be great." I lean my head back on the seat and look at him, trying not to appear starry-eyed.

He peeks at me from over his Ray Bans. "Oh yeah? How do you know?"

Because you're perfect. "Because you're really serious about it. You won't half-ass it."

"Being serious about it doesn't mean I'm any good at it." The shifting of his eyes tells me he's a little unsure he should've admitted that, or at least that he admitted it to me.

I want to push him to open up to me but don't want him to clam up instead, regretful he's showed me this side to him. I think for a moment and turn a little in my seat. "Harry, do you think you have an interesting subject?"

"Yes."

"Do you think you have an interesting point of view?"

"Yes."

"Do you think the shots you took are visually appealing?"

At that, he nods emphatically. "Yes."

I shrug. "Then don't worry about it and trust your gut."

He doesn't say anything to that and I think the conversation is over as we lapse into silence and let the music fill the space. He clears his throat and when I look back to him, he's looking at me with those fierce, green eyes. "Trusting your gut can be a scary proposition."

I swallow. "It doesn't have to be." My gut is telling me he's not talking about the movie, but I don't want to make a fool of myself, pining away for my step-sister's boyfriend thinking I even have a chance, so I stay on-topic.